> What an odd piece.  I have the feeling reading it that if I knew
> this Mister Brown I'd understand it better.

I was admiring its fresh approach.

"After a long battle that involved pumping, flow, and pressure drop,
Charlie's motor finally stopped,"

instead of:

"departed this life"

"was taken to heaven"

"went gently into rest"

"been taken up to heaven unexpectedly" (We thought the old coot would burn
in hell for sure?)

No service, no funeral, just "The next time you raise a glass, have a toast
to Charlie!"



I'd really like my obituary to quote extensively from the parrot sketch,
with some Puzo thrown in at the end:

====

He's passed on. He is no more. He has ceased to be. He's expired and gone to
meet his maker. He's a stiff. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. His
metabolic processes are now history. He's off the twig. He's kicked the
bucket. He's shuffled off his mortal coil, rung down the curtain and joined
the choir invisible.

He sleeps with the fishes.

===


Supplemental reading:

http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2002/07/08/020708fa_fact


Regards,

KGB

-----
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